They all sat in silence for a moment. After a few minutes, Jacques called for Hugo. “Cognac and Monte Cristos for all of us, including you, Hugo. I appreciate your kindness for my father.”
Hugo left the room for the cognacs and cigars. Jacques turned to his son. “Now it’s just the two of us, my son.” Then Jacques turned to the doctor. “When can we go to the hospital?”
“Right away, monsieur,” he answered. “The nurses would have had time to clean him and make him comfortable.”
Hugo came back into the library. He filled the glasses and passed out the cigars. He looked at Jacques and Jean Pierre.
Jean Pierre lifted the brandy snifter in a somber toast. “To Grandpa with all of our love and also for his love and care for us.”
* * *
They arrived at the hospital at 11:10. Maurice was lying quietly on his bed. The blue stain across his skull down into his face was frightening for Jacques and Jean Pierre. Suddenly, Maurice’s eyes flew open. His blue eyes seemed to search the two of them.
“Father!” Jacques said. “We are here with you!” But there were no words from him. Only a small stream of white spittle as he tried to open his mouth.
The nurse standing at the door called, “Dr. Guillemin!”
The doctor quickly stood next to his patient’s bed. He held Maurice’s hand and took his pulse. There was none. Maurice’s hand fell limply to the sheet. Gently, the doctor closed Maurice’s eyes and closed his mouth.
He turned to Jacques and Jean Pierre and spoke softly. “I am sorry, but he is gone.”
Jacques took his son’s hand. They both had tears in their eyes. Jacques looked up at the wall clock.
Maurice had died at 11:15.
22
The Athenaeum in Cannes was a cold stone building. There were fine private rooms for personal family viewing and a number of other rooms that were larger and held ten to twelve corpses on only cement slabs. There were groups of wooden chairs placed around the slabs for each sorrowing family.
But Maurice’s private room was the finest decorated room and the most tasteful of all the rooms in the building. The chairs were plush, made of the finest wood and most expensive velvet. In each corner of the room there were scented candles that gave a soft, warm light and took the chill out of the room.
Jean Pierre was the first to enter the room early the next morning. He looked at his grandfather. He couldn’t believe how extraordinarily the mortician had worked. His grandfather’s face was clean-shaven, his hair combed neatly; and even more extraordinary, the blood clots on his face had been completely erased. Maurice was wearing his finest silk evening clothes, with a white Irish linen shirt starched to perfection and his black silk evening bow tie. He lay there looking as though he were still alive. His mahogany coffin was lying on a rack covered with a velvet cloth.
Jacques entered the room and stood next to Jean Pierre. He peered down at his father and then he looked at Jean Pierre. “Father loved dressing up. He was a very handsome man.”
“Yes,” Jean Pierre said, and then sat down beside his father in the chairs in the first row, where they waited for the first guests to arrive.
The cardinal of the Alpes Maritimes was the first. With him came the archbishop of Nice and Cannes. Joining them was the priest of St. Mary of Cannes, the largest Catholic church in all the diocese. Jacques and Jean Pierre shook hands with all the churchmen and then knelt before the coffin while the cardinal gave the mass, assisted by the altar boys from the church.
It was 120 kilometers to the mountains where the natural springs of Plescassier sprang from the earth. Next to the springs was a small farmhouse set on two hectares. One-half hectare was on the west side of the farmhouse, which held the tiny family cemetery where all of the Martin ancestors rested silently in peace. There were simple gray marble headstones marking each grave. Each headstone carried the name of only men. There was never a female that rested in this cemetery.
It was four in the afternoon when the graveside services began. There were approximately seventy mourners there, mostly Plescassier springs and bottling-plant employees. The priest that was the head of the small Église de Plescassier parish began the mass and immediately Jacques paid homage to his father and Jean Pierre gestured as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Finally a single white rose was tossed on the coffin by each mourner and then the earth was placed over Maurice’s final resting place.
Silently, the mourners left the cemetery. Jacques and Jean Pierre waited until Maurice’s headstone had been securely placed at his head. Then Jacques gestured to his son and pointed at the ground. There were small footstones in the earth next to Grandfather, and their own names had been lightly chiseled on them.
It was dusk when they finally went back to the old farmhouse. Jacques spoke to Samuel and Therese, who had taken care of the grounds. They lived beneath the farmhouse, in a small apartment that used to be the cellar. Jacques asked them to prepare the master’s room for him; Jean Pierre would use the room that used to be his room when he was the son in this house.
Therese, her eyes swollen with tears, said that she had a lovely côte de boeuf, pommes frites, fresh, whole baguettes, and a delightful 1937 Bourgogne that was from their own vineyard. Samuel turned to them as he spoke. “We had expected that you would stay here, so the two rooms have been prepared since we first learned of Monsieur Maurice’s passing. Now that the house is your own, we hope that you enjoy it as your ancestors have.”
After dinner they moved into the small living room. They sat in the old-fashioned overstuffed armchairs. Jacques took a large cigar and lit it. He leaned back in his chair and thought a moment. “We must plan for our future,” he said, waving his cigar as he spoke. “I am fifty-seven years old and twenty years older than you.”
Jean Pierre looked at him. “But you are a young man, Father.”
“But it’s not so long that I will retire at the age of sixty-one. It is the year that every one of us has turned over the company to our next inheritor. And that is you, Jean Pierre. In the year 1945 you will be the president and owner of Plescassier.”
“You’re only forgetting one thing, Father,” Jean Pierre answered, and smiled. “There is still a war going on.”
“War or not,” Jacques said in a strong, forceful voice. “In 1945, whether the war is over or not, you will leave the service and take over your born responsibility. We have all had to make sacrifices, Jean Pierre. This is what our ancestors have lived and died for.”
Jacques met his son’s eyes. “You will do as we all have done. You will select a beautiful woman, who will bear you the heir for the next generation.”
“Jesus, Father,” Jean Pierre said. “You were only twenty years old when you married your wife and she became pregnant tout de suite. I hardly think at thirty-seven I can start having affairs with a woman. I’ve spent my life with handsome men.”
“You’ll manage, Jean Pierre. We all do. Your grandfather was thirty-one years old when I was born,” Jacques said with finality.
“Balls,” Jean Pierre answered.
“You better make sure that you get a male heir.” Jacques laughed, not as a joke. “Female heirs won’t do a thing for you. Without a male you cannot inherit Plescassier and you will lose everything for yourself and all of your ancestors. Our name will be lost forever.”
“Okay, Father, you know I will never destroy our family,” Jean Pierre replied. He had known that this day would come. He had resigned himself to this fact a long time ago. “But first I will return to General de Gaulle and work to help the Free French save our country.”
“Just remember, my son, you are the only heir,” Jacques said. “You stay close to the general’s side. You can be a hero, but don’t go into the trenches.”
“Yes, Father,” Jean Pierre said, and leaned toward his father as they both embraced.
23
It was ten days before Jean Pierre was able to return to Paris to his quarters in the old building that had been
General de Gaulle’s office. It was eerie as he walked into the building. The offices were totally empty. He walked through the hallway to the back offices, where the remaining officers were.
There were seven of the sous-lieutenants who looked up in surprise as Jean Pierre walked through the door. Three of them spoke at once. “Jean Pierre!” Then all of them gathered around him.
One of the senior officers grabbed his hand. “You’re alive!” he exclaimed. “It’s a miracle!”
“What’s a miracle?” Jean Pierre asked. “Nothing happened to me. It was my grandfather who passed away.”
One other young officer, Alain, looked at him. “We had been notified that you were killed when the plane was shot down over the Channel by a German Messerschmitt fighter. We were told everyone on the flight to England that night had perished. We had just received instructions from the Department of Defense to notify your family.”
Jean Pierre sank into a chair. “All of them?” he asked. The senior officer nodded.
“My God!” Jean Pierre said. “I need a drink. When Colonel Nicol learned of my grandfather’s illness, he gave me a pass to go and be with him. He ordered Louis to take my place on the flight.”
Alain shook his head. “They never notified us of any change,” he said. “You were fucking lucky!”
“But not Louis,” Jean Pierre said quietly. “I feel guilty now.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Alain said. “This is war.”
Jean Pierre sat quietly for a moment. “Whom do I see for my orders to go to London?”
The eldest of the officers looked at him. Rene was a heavyset man and almost totally gray-haired. “No one,” he answered. “There are no staff officers here. We have had no communication with de Gaulle.”
“Then what do we do here? Just wait until the Boche arrive and pick us up and either execute us or send us to a prisoner-of-war camp?” Jean Pierre said angrily.
“You are the senior officer here now,” Rene said. “We have made arrangements to rent an old fishing boat to take all of us to Dover. We have only one problem: Between all of us we don’t even have half of the money to pay the fisherman. And unless we pay it all up front, the fisherman, a fucking Spanish bastard, will not take us anywhere.”
Jean Pierre looked at him. “I have all of the money that we need for the boat.”
The other officers stood up and saluted. “Merci, Capitaine. If we can meet with the fisherman tonight, we’ll be able to leave by tomorrow night.”
“I’m ready,” Jean Pierre said. “Just let me know how much money we need.”
* * *
Jean Pierre had dinner with his father at the villa in Paris. Jacques had been surprised to see Jean Pierre when he came into the office in the Champs-Elysées. “What happened?” Jacques asked. “Have the Boche taken over your quarters?”
Jean Pierre laughed. “Don’t be silly, Father. The Germans have not found us yet.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Jacques asked. “Are you now going into the stupid underground and get yourself killed?”
“No, Father,” Jean Pierre answered.
“You can’t even get to England now. I read in the papers that all of de Gaulle’s staff is with him already,” Jacques said. “You’re fucked. If you want my opinion, I think you should go back to Plescassier, dress like the local farmers, and lay low until this war is over.”
“There are eight of us here now,” Jean Pierre said, ignoring his father’s advice. “We have found a Spanish fisherman who will take us to Dover tomorrow night.”
“The Channel is terrible by boat. Nothing but storms, and now the Luftwaffe is patrolling the Channel and will sink every little boat from Calais to England.”
“I’m sorry, Father,” Jean Pierre said. “I have to go. My friend Louis, who took my place on the plane, is dead. And all of the others on that plane. Shot down over the Channel. They were stunned at headquarters when I walked in; they thought I was on that plane, because none of the transfer papers had reached them. So I must go. It is my duty for allowing Louis to go in my place.”
“You are really stupid. What good will it do now, even for de Gaulle, even for France, even for me, if you are dead?” Jacques said. “I will not allow it! You will not go on a fisherman’s boat in the dead of night, not even if you fly with angel’s wings.”
“Nothing else matters, Father,” Jean Pierre shot back. “I have made up my mind.”
“You can’t do it.” Jacques began to get angry with his son. “If anything happens to you, what would I do? I am left alone and without an heir. Do you have so little concern for your own father?”
“First, my father, I will not die.” Jean Pierre laughed. “You are worrying for no reason.”
“Monsieur Weil, our banker, was caught at the Swiss border and executed. The Boche show no mercy. They catch you on the Channel, you won’t be given a chance to even escape. They will kill you,” Jacques said, still upset.
Jean Pierre reached for his father’s hand. “Then, Father, you can save the family again. You are still a man with all of his sexual power. You can make three women pregnant in a month. Then the family will be saved.”
Jacques looked at his son. “You are just a crazy child, Jean Pierre.”
24
The Spanish fisherman’s boat was rancid with the smell of dead fish. Even the Frenchmen who didn’t smoke cigarettes were smoking to try to kill the horrible stench. One after the other they emptied their stomachs over the side of the boat. An hour and a half outside of Dover they were hailed by a British patrol boat. Within an hour the Frenchmen were taken by the British boat the rest of the journey and the Spanish fisherman was on his way back to France.
A week after Jean Pierre arrived in General de Gaulle’s headquarters, he was assigned to work with the U.S. Army platoon at the American embassy. The platoon, despite being a small group, had many duties, including protection of the ambassador and his family, and covering messages and telephone and radio transmissions to and from the State Department in Washington, D.C. Jean Pierre didn’t think his job was too important in the beginning, but it wasn’t long until he realized that his real work was collecting all of the intelligence information in and out of the embassy.
The two officers in charge of the platoon were a colonel and a major. However, Jean Pierre reported to only one man, Lieutenant Bradford Norton. He had been promoted in the field from sergeant. Brad, as he preferred to be called, was liked and well respected by all of the men.
Jean Pierre had a great deal of respect for the lieutenant even though he was several years younger. They worked together well and a deep friendship began to develop between the two men. It wasn’t long before they discovered that each led a homosexual lifestyle. They became lovers.
Because Jean Pierre was rich, he was able to live a very good life in London. He was wealthy enough to rent a beautiful apartment near Hyde Park. He could easily walk to the de Gaulle headquarters, and within a quarter of an hour he could walk to the American embassy.
Jean Pierre and Brad were having dinner at the Mayflower Hotel several months after they had met. Jean Pierre looked at Brad. “I want you to move in with me.”
Brad laughed. “That would be wonderful,” Brad said. “I would love it; however, if the army ever found out about our relationship, I would be court-martialed, thrown in an army prison for at least three years, and given a dishonorable discharge.”
“Why would anyone else have to know?” Jean Pierre asked. “We won’t be here forever. And after the war you can come to France with me to live. Our life will be heaven in France.”
“What kind of work would I do in France? I don’t know the language that well. Jean Pierre, it takes money to live,” Brad answered.
“Money is not important.” Jean Pierre laughed.
“What? You have enough money to live like that?” Brad asked.
“I have enough money to even live in America without working. The important thing is I love you! I wa
nt us to be together,” Jean Pierre said.
Brad looked at him and then lifted his glass and held it up to Jean Pierre. “I love you, too!”
They both drank from their wineglasses. Jean Pierre spoke first. “To our troth!” Under the table Jean Pierre placed his hand inside Brad’s thigh. He could feel Brad’s hardening phallus.
PART TWO
TWO FRANCS A LITER
1
Jerry in the Army and Out
Friday the thirteenth is always an unlucky day for me. It was a frozen day in February 1942. I was standing bare-assed naked in Grand Central taking my medical checkup for the army. There were at least twenty doctors who I had to see, and they looked into every hole in my body, from my ass to my nose and ears. Finally, it was over. I dressed and was seated at a small table across from a fifty-year-old doctor who had my medical history report in his hand.
He read it carefully and every few minutes looked at me over the top of his glasses. Finally he spoke. “You’re Jewish?”
“Yes, Doctor,” I answered.
“I’m Jewish, too,” he said.
I nodded silently.
He got out of his chair and then took a small black instrument with a light on the front and peered into each of my ears. Then he went back to his chair and sat down.
The doctor continued reading my report. Then he opened a heavy medical encyclopedia and began studying it. I looked behind me to see if anyone was waiting to see the doctor. All I could see was the line of draftees standing in another line. They looked like cattle in a Clark Gable movie being taken to the slaughter. The doctors were impersonal; they didn’t give a damn about the draftees. They would pass them or reject them. They didn’t care which way.
But I thought I was in good shape. I turned back and watched the doctor. I began to tap my fingers. He finally looked up at me. “Do you have any problem hearing?”
“No, sir,” I answered.
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